Them
by Footlights
Summary: The worst sentence is, quite obviously, to inflict what he sees on everyone else. Kay-based. Three-shot.
1. Mandolin

Monsters live in the mirror behind his mother's door.

Such an ordinary door. The wood is dark and reddish. It has a faint gleam during the day, a waxy, muted shine that exposes the grain, so all the lines appear like black gouges, stretching from the top of its frame to the floor. Fingernails dug into the wood once. Light scratches near its bottom tease at a mist of a memory.

His fingers curl inward, the tips pressing into the soft skin of his palm, as if to take refuge there. He recalls the stinging sensation. Above all else, he recalls the sound, the whining, dragging, hissing. There was a _crack _as the tiny white ends bent and splintered backward.

The sound stuck in his mind, as all sounds tend to do. They collect within him, a catalog, a chorus with parts ranging from the plodding mundane to the instrumental extraordinary. He enjoys this, at this early phase in his life. Most sounds, aside from the fingernails, appeal to him.

Footsteps pound their way up the main staircase. He is huddled at the bottom of the attic steps and rises quickly, meeting his mother on the landing between the two flights.

Her head is still higher than his, though not as high as his earliest recollections would have him believe. She does not realize they are traveling at each other right away, and he nearly collides with her dress as it swishes forward. They are suddenly close. Too close.

One of the unspoken rules has been broken.

"_What _are you doing?" she snaps, recoiling. "How many times must I tell you to pay attention to what's in front of you? And, by God, don't run in the house!"

It is instinctual to crumple under the explosive volume of her voice. Her fury is always set to the same deafening intensity, and forever at the ready, so that every misstep is attacked like a life-threatening flaw. Merely being in her presence carries with it the tingle of something slightly acidic. There is steam beneath her skin, bubbling out her pores, seeking any excuse to erupt.

He lowers his head.

Her last word pings against the walls, unchallenged, supreme.

Her anger, however, is not afraid to touch him. The excess of it fills the space between them and infiltrates the mask. It bristles his back. It fists his hands. It fills the thin, hollow cavity of his chest with something hot and lively and righteous.

His head snaps up, and he glares at the steps behind her, thinking suddenly of how simple it would be to shove her down.

"Where are you off to this time, Mother?"

"I—well…" Her eyes dart to the side, bewildered. Her hands rake over her clothes, searching for the giveaway that told him she was leaving. The tie of her bonnet catches on her fingers, and she seizes it, relaxing her shoulders.

She tilts her head back slightly, so her chin juts out at him. "I have to fix the mess you've made. Did you honestly believe Monsieur Bardin would not notice his sister's mandolin had gone missing? Did you really, Erik?"

"You said his sister wasn't coming back. He isn't going to play it." He shrugs. "It deserves to be played."

"Monsieur Bardin deserves to go to bed every night without wondering if his belongings will be there in the morning!"

"But the mandolin—"

She exhales, a deep-throated growl of frustration rolling out with the air. "I won't hear another word about it. Do you understand? I won't, I won't!"

She whips around and runs back down the staircase, as though she expects to be chased.

He remains where he is, looking after her. He waits until he does not hear footsteps anymore, and then slowly, quietly makes his way down. He takes one step at a time. He does not want to frighten her. He knows she spends every night locked in her room with the mirror monsters, and that they must chase her, and he does not want to be anything like them.

He lingers on the second step from the bottom. His fingers rub the edge of the banister, pressing into it as though it possesses a string. He watches his own movements for a few beats, only daring to observe her out of the corner of his eye.

His most common view of her is from the back. Her spine is nearly more recognizable to him than her face. He has made a study of her posture. Almost without variation, she stands as straight as a wall when she knows he is there and curls in on herself when she is unaware of his presence.

"Let me come," he says.

"No. You must stay in the house."

The answer comes in a mindless mutter, without even the pretense of consideration. It is always the same—precisely the same—and the words have taken on the feeling of iron bars.

The mandolin is waiting by the door in its case. She lifts the handle and allows it to lean against her body. The wooden box completely disguises its rounded shape. It has sharp corners with diagonal sides, making it much wider on one end than the other. In fact, it resembles the pine boxes that can sometimes be seen at night in the village cemetery, and that is appropriate. The mandolin may as well be stuffed underground.

"I can show Monsieur Bardin my music," he bursts out, pleading. "I can play for him. He can't be angry anymore, once he hears it. He might let me keep it long enough to finish!"

His mother's shoulders quiver, raising and lowering in jerky increments.

When she glances back at him, her eyes are dark and bloodshot and swimming. There are circles formed by the heavy, etched creases beneath them. "He will see you before he hears you, and he will never listen."

"Why not?"

"Keep away from the windows. Don't cause anymore trouble." She opens the door.

He leaps from the second step to the floor. His feet crash down on the boards with a violent smack. "_Why not_?"

"You know why not!" She faces him fully, and her shouting spews venom throughout the entire room. "Don't think you can play your games with me. I can't stand anymore games. You've looked into the mirror, and I know you know!"

She wrenches the door open the rest of the way and flings herself over the threshold. Once outside, she freezes, one arm extended behind her as her hand keeps hold of the door handle. A gust of wind invades the house. She gasps at the air, as though she has been holding her breath for a very long time.

She pulls the door. It closes softly.

She disappears. The lock clanks into place, not as softly.

He peers out the window out of spite but keeps his focus on the greenery, which is not difficult when the vision of her shrinking away has been fixed to the dark side of his eyelids. He draws back to glower at the furniture, and the ceiling, and every other detail that limits the space around him. Frustration is not at all as satisfying as anger. It is abrasive, and it scrapes and takes pieces of him back to wherever it started, so its roots remain planted in his mind until the matter is completely resolved.

He kicks the bottom step once, twice, as many times as he wishes, then stomps his way to the drawing room. The drawing room is important because it contains the piano. For the past month, it has also been the favored hiding place of his mother's spare keys.

The piano stool feels warmer than his hands. He pulls it out from under the instrument before lifting and carrying it to the china cabinet against the wall. The cabinet sits high on four long legs that are carved to resemble those of a fox, tapering inward with clawed feet digging into the floor. He completed the alteration over a year ago with blunt, unsuitable tools, and he regrets pouncing on the impulse to bring the animals he had only spied from a distance into the house.

Upon closer inspection, the anatomy is not right. The proportions are all wrong.

He climbs onto the stool and stands on top of it. The added height places him eye level with the painted, precious dishes on one of the cabinet shelves. There is glass in front of them, glass in front of him, but it is clear and crowded, not having any room for a thing larger than the cups and bowls inside.

He reaches up. His fingers brush across the top of the cabinet, feeling along the edge first, and then farther and farther back. He begins to visualize other common hiding places—his mother once suffered from the mistaken belief that his disinterest in her cooking would keep him from exploring the pantry—but his hands strike metal before he can decide where to look next.

"There!"

He takes the keys and leaves the stool, just aware enough of the possibility of discovery to shove his accomplice back beneath the piano. There is triumph with anticipation like spurs upon its heels, and he runs without a thought to any rules. His mother's door cannot stop him now. That boundary is powerless.

Her room is dark. It is the place where he learned to fear the dark, but he is not afraid of the quality itself anymore. He has adapted to his room, which is often black since the boards were secured to the windows. His mother only has heavy draperies that are soft by comparison, allowing slivers of light to creep ever so slightly around their sides. Now that the door is open, there is also natural light coming in from the hall.

The mirror is there. He still thinks of it as a new mirror, even though his fists were smaller when the old glass got broken and bloodied. The mirror is there, but he does not step in front of it, and he is wearing the mask. So, he cannot see the monsters, and they cannot see him.

He does not think they can see him.

The mask makes him feel his breathing. He breathes out hard, and the hot, humid air is forced to fill the gap between the organic and artificial skin. It is wet inside. He does not know if he is sweating.

He moves to stand before the mirror, and, though it is only a matter of a few steps, it feels like he is traveling a great distance. He stares ahead and gazes straight at the glass, watching the backwards bedroom materialize around him. It is a flawless reproduction. Of course, the Louis Philippe furniture has never been moved, but it is the details that astound him. The hairbrush that occasionally migrates from dresser to nightstand. The lights that glow, and then are put out. The sheets which are nearly always folded, but never creased in precisely the same lines.

It is a perfect mirror that reflects the world down to the slenderest misplaced pin. It is the same bedroom in the same home, but it does not belong to his mother. Although he can see himself standing in it now, he has no place there. It is teeming with monsters.

The mask has a special power. His mother made it that way. It is his shield, his medieval knight's armor. There can be no monsters so long as the mask is in place.

His fingers tremble as he reaches to undo the ties, vibrating like a warning drone against the back of his head. He knows, though, that if there are no monsters, there will be no answers. He will never understand, and the need to understand has grown stronger and louder than the nightmares that leave him screaming into the night.

He tugs the frayed end of one string. The mask drops into his free hand, the one waiting close by his face. The skin that was hot when it was covered is immediately cold. He goes rigid, and his attention is drawn to the solid frame around the mirror, the safe edges that keep the monsters contained. The first time he attempted this, he was unable to look beyond the edges at all.

That was weeks ago. He peers in.


	2. Figurine

Behind the gauze curtain, his reflection twitches with the desire to escape the glass.

The khanum's mirror is far more decorative than functional and looks larger than it truly is. The reflective area is drenched in riches, overwhelmed on all sides by constricting swaths of gold. Dark gems riddle the elaborate casing like pockmarks. Pinpricks of sunlight draw color from the stones, speckling the flowers on the rug beneath him with droplets of infectious red-brown.

"That's it." The khanum's hand whips out to halt the girl adjusting the infernal device. "Keep it exactly there, I think… Yes, that will do very well."

The mask has been removed because she demanded it. His dignity is relegated to a marble tabletop, the hollow shell of a face placed just beyond the reach of the chair reserved for his use. This uninspired performance occurs in full view of the vacant eye holes. The blacked out sockets observe the proceedings with a constant expression of contempt. It is a look he has sculpted and refined through years of close observation, an unconditional, offended regard which greets him even in the lowest echelons of human society and which he is only too willing to answer in kind.

"I expect those I honor with an invitation to my private chambers to offer me their undivided attention, at the very least."

The curtain does little to conceal the gleam of satisfaction in the khanum's gaze. Her rebuke is firm but slowly spoken, a note held to savor every spike of dissonance in its wake. Her response to catching him eyeing the mask is to rise up from the vibrant mound of pillows cushioning her back. She is never more alert than when she believes she is winning her game. Even pampered palace cats stir at the sight of a crippled bird.

He, of course, cannot look at her without also seeing himself. The monster in the mirror has a fitting perch beside the low, sloped end of her divan. "I was under the impression, madame, that you were quite fond of divided things. A body pulled apart upon the rack, for example."

The girl who saw to the mirror makes a pitiful little yelp of a sound.

He does not turn. Facing her would increase her torment unnecessarily, and he is practiced in stifling the impulse to look in any particular direction. In fact, the reflexive need to investigate every sort of agitated screeching is all but lost to him. Wherever he travels, it is with the knowledge that he is the most likely cause for alarm.

The khanum glares at the girl.

There is a flutter of fabrics, a silken rustling which suggests some rapid change in position. Precious metals jangle against one another, then clang once—more loudly—when the bracelets adorning her wrists are brought down with her hands to debase themselves on the floor. The vibrations are stilled on impact. The ringing is not permitted to carry at all.

Clarity, incompletion, or any number of qualities attributed to the noise hit on a firing mechanism in his inner ear. A short phrase occurs to him. The notes climb, mingle, and descend. He hears the melody line, crooned as it would be from the belly of a piano. He sees the ink blots hung upon the staff and knows where they ought to be written in order to be preserved.

"Are these conditions too taxing for you, Erik?"

His eyes have closed in an effort to shut out additional stimuli that might misdirect him from the piece. He surrenders his concentration with a huff of annoyance.

"I should hope not," the khanum continues, a challenging lift to her brow. "Such… _sensitivity _in a man is most disappointing."

"Your settings neither tire nor excite me, madame. I'm afraid the props you've selected for this scene contribute nothing to my motivation."

"Your motivation, indeed! Are you actually suggesting this is for your benefit?" She lifts one hennaed hand toward the mirror with a hard laugh. "My friend, I am certain you could never know what it is to appreciate one's own appearance. One of the many joys beyond your grasp, I suspect."

She stretches backward, extending her neck so the vulnerable arch of her throat can be guessed through the veils. Her head obstructs a portion of the glass, and she turns to regard it, though she does not lean in enough to completely usurp his reflection with hers. A pillow is pushed partway off the furniture as a result of her shifting. Two of the tassels dangling from the corners swish side to side in the open air.

From his seat, he can see little other than the back of her head and one half of his face, which is not much of an improvement on his whole image, except that there is less of it. Although he is able to make out a slither of the khanum's reflection, showing just slightly outside the dimensions of her skull. The dark part of one of her eyes flickers in and out of his observation as she inspects herself—and him—and herself by turns.

"Do you find the comparison flattering?"

She straightens, looking pleased to have been caught in the midst of her evaluation. "I find it very intriguing. Tell me, what must it be like to arouse such terror at a glance?"

"Our present company leads me to believe you are capable of answering that for yourself."

"Who do you mean?"

He nods at the girl still crumpled on the floor. She has relaxed only marginally from her overwrought submission, though perhaps she is relieved the bowing provides an excuse to focus on the tiles beneath her.

The khanum sighs, breath hissing out between her teeth. "Get up, you little fool!"

The girl rises. The decorations lavished upon her person create another upswell of sound. Fine materials whisper, and jewelry chimes, but none of it translates to music. When she is still, the silence that remains is weighed down with apprehension.

"Leave us."

The girl bends once more in response to the khanum's command, then scurries from the room.

His hands, which he did not realize were clenching the armrests of the chair, come loose. He stares ahead with renewed equanimity. "Was there a purpose to this meeting? The urgency of the summons I received this morning appears to have been grossly exaggerated."

"Perhaps I wanted to hear a clever tale in a pretty voice," the khanum suggests airily. Then her eyes narrow to slits. "Never forget your skills were procured for my entertainment, and you are to dance when I say."

"Come, madame. We both know your interests lie far from the pedestrian realms of children's stories and waltzes."

She laughs, but it is soft around the edges, inviting and conspiratorial. She leans forward. "I wish to know what sort of death you're devising."

"An amusing one." He settles farther back in his seat. "As requested."

"Yes, yes, but what, exactly, will be the means of execution?"

He has not decided. Not exactly. Not yet. His imagination lends itself to an array of destinations, each with differing attractions and snares. The same line of thought that prompts the arrangement of a requiem mass could just as readily conjure a masterful decapitation—and he would see both projects through to completion with equal force. He knows, too, that either endeavor has the potential to grant him immense satisfaction. The boundary distinguishing creative beauty from creative menace is slender and twisting out of view.

Still, some distinction lingers. Improving upon plans for the shah's new palace is gratifying without exhausting anything deeper than his time or physical strength. Executions, on the other hand, diminish a personal resource that is much more limited. It is a curious commodity, a certain sense of balance for which he has no name. He is not sure why it feels so crucial. He is only aware that when it goes missing, the world around him ceases to tally up quite right. And so he has spent the past several days fixating on ideas for the palace, precisely like the khanum forbid him to do.

"That will become apparent soon enough."

"Soon enough for the sniveling masses, but not for me. I will have my answer now."

He studies her, a coiled snake unimpressed with its basket, a beast that is reputed to be enthralled by the playing of a pungi but truly sways in time with the nearness of a perceived threat. "If you wait for the demonstration, the spectacle will appear much more horrific. Appalling, even."

"I doubt that. I'm sure it is evident to you by now, Erik, that I never lose my composure to disgust."

"This could be a novelty for you, then." He shrugs. "Madame, speaking as a magician, there is no trick upon this earth capable of withstanding a thorough explanation with more than a quarter of its original appeal intact."

She draws in a breath, as if to test the validity of his argument by scent.

Moments pass.

"I see." Her voice grows coarser in the wake of surrender. The admission is uttered at the tempo of an agonized crawl. "Yes, I suppose I can afford to indulge your artistic sensibilities in this instance, if you are confident it is worth my… patience. Of course, I expect the preparations for your demonstration to be underway shortly. Very shortly."

"Naturally." He stands. "Shall I get to work?"

He asks as a pleasantry and already has the mask in his grasp when she speaks again.

"You are welcome to leave that here."

He presses the cool, solid molding to his face without pause. His fingers jerk the ties into knots a good deal tighter than necessary. "I think it is better if I don't. Your cities are too dilapidated to accommodate panic in the streets. One riot, and the entire empire might fall to rubble."

The khanum looks to the ceiling, far more interested in the sun-white dome over their heads. "Save those tedious building complaints for my son. Why he is so invested in such a slow and dusty process is beyond me."

"The shah could not care less for the intricacies of construction. He is simply salivating for the end result, much like his mother."

She does not react, arms folded prim and motionless in her lap, but, when she looks at him, there is a calculating tilt to her head. "Your posture is improved, much less pathetic, with that mask… but now you've said something refreshing. Were you implying your ugliness alone could be used as a weapon of destruction?"

"I know nightmares reduce mankind to their most primitive instincts. They lose all reason when the vision is provoking enough. If you'll excuse me." He bends at the waist, only as much and for as long as is required to avoid appearing exceptionally rude, and takes his leave while it is still within reach.

* * *

It is night. He hasn't a clue how many days have passed since his visit to the khanum—time slips through more trapdoors than he can ever illustrate—but it has been dark for awhile now. What is left of the moon casts the daroga's estate in numerous shades of blue and silver. There is no one about. There is not a single servant to spy or stop him, and, therefore, the route he takes to the house is the most direct line available.

It is counterintuitive to enter through the front door. It defies a bedrock of calloused wisdom, chafing against iron principles which insist his survival depends on remaining undetected. Familiarity helps to neutralize the natural resistance. He has been invited into this particular dwelling on several relatively recent occasions, after all.

A spare key is bound to be tucked into some nook or cranny on the grounds, but it would not be anywhere conspicuous. The daroga, Nadir, is an excessively cautious sort of man that would never dare to tempt approaching assassins with a flash of metal. Erik doesn't need to find it regardless. His cloak conceals an assortment of narrow and piercing instruments, at least one of which is guaranteed to be an effective remedy for the lock.

The intended way forward is rarely as simple or certain as forging his own path ahead.

The rooms are empty. Their furnishings seem mild, their size diminutive, when compared to the khanum's chambers, but their closeness also communicates warmth and good taste. The stained glass windows are almost too richly tinted for the moon to penetrate. Pieces which shine red in the light of day leave faint purple reflections on the walls at present, as if the home has been abused.

He can see well enough to go to the cupboard. He opens it so quickly, the hinges do not have the opportunity to produce an entire squeak. From inside, he extracts the pipe with its porcelain bowl, too small to hold even the humblest serving of food, and its cherry wood stem. This item will be returned, of course. Preferably before Nadir has reason to notice it has wandered astray. The opium itself can be replenished in a few hours' time at the local bazaar. Unfortunately it is not so immediately accessible that this slight diversion is rendered unnecessary.

The sleeping quarters are on the opposite end of the house, and the space between where he is lingering and where the inhabitants are resting leads him to assume he does not need to stay silent. He hums. He sneaks a tune under his breath because the opium in his hands reminds him of the gold the khanum's servant was wearing as she folded at the feet of an insidious master. The melody from that moment returns to him. It climbs, mingles, and—

"Erik?" The name sounds half-garbled and very, very small. "Erik, you're here?"

The song dies in his throat. The child has materialized behind him. He looks back, and it is impossible to tell from the boy's hazy, staggering gaze if the singing merely woke him or impelled him from his bed, drawing him to this spot by a force of will not quite his own.

If there was hypnotism, it was unintentional. Erik has yet to uncover any explanation for the tangible pull of his voice. He can harness its effects to his advantage, but that does not mean its influence never slinks in at accidental points to disturb him.

"I am, Reza. What are you doing out of bed at this hour?"

"I don't want to sleep anymore. I'm tired of sleeping." Reza is unsteady on his feet and teeters too far to one side.

Erik comes toward him in a hurry, abandoning everything in his grasp so that he might catch the child, but Reza has one free hand and manages to stabilize himself against the frightfully sharp corner of a desk.

"Mind your head!" The exclamation builds to a pitch that is much too loud. He forces the return to a whisper. "You must be careful."

Reza makes no reply except to look down in search of the brightly painted figurine he is carrying with him. One really can't find fault with his indifference. He has likely been told to be careful hundreds, if not hundreds of thousands of times before.

Erik strives for another tone, the kind of murmur fit to bait a skeptical crowd. "Will you sit with me? I could use your help with some new magic."

Reza raises his eyes, and, for an instant, they seem to focus. "What sort of magic?"

"The sort that inspires legends. Come, I'll show you."

"I have something to show you too." Reza's short, bony fingers feel along Erik's sleeve briefly before taking hold of his wrist.

The contact is strange, alien in its gentleness and disarming in its trust. Reza is immune, even under these circumstances, to the blatant abnormalities that should warn him off his poor choice for a guide. His innocence is so astute, he can identify all the world's creatures within the flexible bounds of still-evolving definitions. This oblivious acceptance is a refuge, found only in fledgling homo sapiens and other, more intuitive animals.

It takes a moment to adjust. Erik swallows. "Oh?"

"It's on the veranda. It was a—a present! For Father."

"A gift for Nadir? My, that is exciting."

"It's not as good as your presents are," Reza mumbles, as if wanting to reassure him. "It can't move on its own."

Reza knows better than Erik where the back door is and pivots in that direction. Together, they progress through the kitchen and the parlor. When they arrive at the exit, Reza is intent on opening it himself. His grip is clumsy, his stance shakier than when Erik visited last, but he manages not to tumble as the handle he is tugging at swings aside. He presses onward.

Erik follows next to him, reinforcing each step. The entryway between the veranda and the house is left open. The wicker chairs are hardly discernible and make formidable obstacles in the dark.

Reza stops. His grasp on Erik becomes firmer than it has been at any other juncture in their brief adventure. "There's no light. I don't—I can't show you if..." He looks side to side. The stars are few and fading, offering little illumination and certainly no help to him.

"We'll have to summon our own, then, won't we?"

Erik tucks his hand into a pocket sewn on the inside of his cloak and slides a metal ring onto his finger. The underside of the dull ornament is equipped with a tiny wheel, a tinier speck of ill-tempered stone, and a cap that contains tendrils especially prone to burning. He escorts Reza to one of the chairs, pulling it back from the table.

"This is an excellent seat, Reza. You will be able to see everything from here."

Once the boy is sitting safely, Erik strolls across to the other end of the table. There is a lamp in the middle of the woven, oval-shaped top, and he leans over to bring it closer to him. He leaves it a short distance from the edge, then steps away.

French, Romany, and Italian words harmonize quite well when knit together with sufficient forethought. The languages weave an exotic incantation, a spell that prioritizes rhythm and texture over every definition in any book. He squares his shoulders as the contrasting syllables glide through his mouth, the guttural tones accented by underpinnings of smooth, rolling vowels. Performing has long been a requirement in his life, not always by his choosing, but the gentle atmosphere beneath this roof never fails to set these displays apart.

He snaps his fingers. His thumb rips across the tiny wheel attached to his ring, and fire spews from his hand. He makes a broad, sweeping gesture timed to coincide with the flare. The flame curves in an arc that blazes a tear through the blackness. Where he stands, it is blinding, and heat licks his palm and presses on the mask, the recoil of an invisible barrier that does not care to be ruptured.

The light shines on Reza's face, restoring color to his cheeks. The healthy glow is born and dies with the flash of the fire, but it breaks through the shroud of illness, and his features look much younger—look as they ought to look—as surprised comprehension dawns and his lips part in a slack-jawed grin. Wherever the magic takes him, it is a place from which he draws strength. He applauds with a speed and dexterity that would have seemed beyond him less than a minute before.

"Thank you." Erik's hand winds around the smoke that is left behind, so it appears to be emanating from his fingertips. He reaches for the lamp beside him, coaxing forth a final spark to illuminate it. Once it is burning steadily, he returns his attention to Reza. "Now. Where is your father's present hiding?"

"They put it over there." Reza points straight ahead.

He shifts. The present looms over him. It is the only object he does not recognize, and it is tall and flat. Rectangular in shape with sharp corners, it leans against one of the pillars supporting the roof. It leans, and it is thin, and it has been covered with a sheet.

He makes two fists. The metal on the one hand is hot, but what he is hanging on to is too unpredictable to be released.

"Here." Using the table for support, Reza rights himself and wanders over to the unidentified thing, carrying his toy with him. He lifts the hem of the sheet off the floor and pulls. "Here! Let me."

It falls. The first feature that is exposed is a frame, a thick, wooden frame with flying birds etched into the honey brown. The rest is a painting. Merely a very realistic painting of a gaunt little boy and a rigid masked man in the yellow of a lamp in the nighttime. The lamp rests on a wicker table rather like Nadir's. And—what are the odds—the masked man is wearing a long cloak that has everything in common with Erik's.

Reza peeks over to survey his reaction, and any illusion Erik has managed to construct crumbles to nothing as the boy in the mirror mimics the movement exactly.

"Erik? It's nice, don't you think so? Father said it was."

"Who brought this for your father, Reza?"

"Some men. Is..." He faces the mirror, then Erik again, squinting. "Is something the matter with it?"

"I believe it was sent here for a reason."

"What for? Oh, do you mean it is here to help with your new magic?"

The khanum's game appears to have more than one round and a fresh, inventive staging. It is an ambush. It is an assault to the back with a veiled and silenced weapon. The monster in the mirror has no place here, no right to corrupt this dwindling sanctuary. Kindness should never be enlisted in the delving out of cruelty. It is the ugliest misuse imaginable, decayed even further by the fact that the well-meaning actors have no understanding of the part they have played. People do not see. They can never know what it is to be pursued, to be terrorized, by a reflection as he does.

He is a child again, conducting experiments to defy his nightmares. "Mirrors only make good magic when they are broken."

"I didn't know that..."

Without warning, Reza grunts and hurls his figurine into the glass with stunning violence. It is shaped like an elephant with a valiant little rider in a howdah atop its back and provides an accurate, if scaled down, representation of the creature's solid girth. The toy hits with a _crash_, then plummets and bangs on the floor, still in one piece. The mirror shatters in ripples. Circular cracks span out from the spot where the damage occurred, widening toward the edges of the frame like rings in the trunk of an aged tree.

Reza collapses. It is his own miraculous momentum that overpowers and flings him backward. He tries to prevent the fall, but his legs are sluggish, his arms weak from exertion, and he comes down with a hard thud. He lands sprawled, tangled, and unmoving.

"Dear God." Erik slumps beside him. "Reza, can you answer me? Did you hit your head?"

The child stirs, startled but lucid. He reaches as if in search of something to pull him up. He just brushes Erik's sleeve when his hand begins to tremble and drops to his side. "No. Erik, can I—"

"Reza!"

The shout is Nadir's. He storms in, nearly indecent in his rumpled nightclothes. His servant, Darius, follows on his heels, a modicum more presentable. They both come to a sudden stop at the sight of Erik. Or perhaps it is the broken mirror, or Reza's current position that gives them pause. There are many elements to piece together, and none are especially amenable to the sleep-addled brain.

Darius does not evaluate for long. He scowls at the mask. "What have you done? Get away from him, infidel!"

Erik straightens to his full height, retreating. "Good evening, Darius. Always a pleasure."

"Reza, are you alright?" Nadir replaces Erik at the child's side and bends over him, seizing his shoulders.

"Yes, Father."

The reply comes quickly and clearly enough to erase a crease in Nadir's forehead. He exhales, studies the mirror, and hefts Reza onto his feet. When Reza, feebler than ever, fails to keep his balance, Nadir secures an arm around him to hold him up, watching Erik with grave expectation as he does so.

"What happened?"

Reza's toy is touching Erik's heel. He is standing in front of it now. It is concealed from Nadir and Darius. They may see the shattered glass, but they do not know the culprit of the destruction, and it is better, more truthful even, that way. An elephant will tread upon forbidden ground if its caretaker deigns to nudge its ears in a negligent direction. That does not shift the responsibility for the act.

"Reza was kind enough to show me your new trinket, and I broke it. In the interest of science, you might say."

Nadir's expression is unchanged. "What science could possibly justify this?"

"I was testing an idea, a dreadful theory, that I thought might assist me in completing the khanum's latest commission. You… remember the task, daroga."

"I remember." Nadir grimaces, shaking his head. "Give me some reason why you're here. I don't believe you came to do any harm, Erik. I hope I'm not naive for that."

Darius scoffs. "It is clear he meant to hurt the child."

The remark pricks Erik's skin and goads his imagination beyond the bounds of decency. He can see Darius as he would look at the end of his strangler's noose, ravenous for air, grappling for life, the complexion of a pustule. The vision shimmers in the peripheral, a tantalizing prospect that assures the dullard will never speak again.

"That accusation is a risk, Darius. I would not admit your suspicions at this time of night."

"It will be dawn soon." He measures Erik with his eyes, most likely to remind himself of his fully-formed and ordinary superiority, as the khanum delights in doing. Like most men, however, he cannot stand to look for long. "If you cared about the boy, you would let him rest."

"I didn't intend to wake him." Erik faces Nadir. "He heard me come in, I suppose. Too eager to share the excitement of the gift you received to sleep. The mirror possessed us both. I was impatient, heedless of the consequences of discovering whether my potential designs could work. When I bashed in the glass— Well. It was all a bit too thrilling for Reza."

Nadir looks down. "Reza? Is that the way it was?"

Reza's mouth came partway open at some point during Erik's more accurate tweaking of events. He seems lost in his shrinking world of shadows. It takes a few breaths for him to relocate the glow of the lamp, but, when he does, his lips flicker up at the corners. The smile is sly, encroaching on mischievous. He has realized the protection the lie affords him, and the knowing expression is a noticeable dent in his innocence, exhilaration at participating in a secret of his very own.

"Yes, Father," he says, a touch too bright. "It was just like Erik said."

"Hmm." Nadir frowns when Reza uses Erik's name but is otherwise, and uncharacteristically, oblivious to the symptoms of dishonesty. Then again, before now, Reza may never have given him reason to suspect deceit. He nods, satisfied.

Erik runs his hands over the mask, feeling for the knot at the back of his head to ensure it is still secure. There is a powerful sense of being divested, as though he has made a spectacle of his ugliness on a platform that is highly obscene.

"The excitement is over now," Nadir goes on, smoothing Reza's hair. "Back to bed with you."

"Can't I stay until Erik leaves?"

"No, you cannot. To bed, Reza."

"I'll take him. Reza, come here." Darius steps forward and lifts the boy into his arms. He makes for the house immediately.

Reza rests his chin on Darius's shoulder, facing backward. "Goodnight, Erik."

"Goodnight, Reza. _Be a good boy._" It is important to say the last thing, so important Erik does what he can to make the command irresistible. It is vital that Reza obeys it, but Darius shuts the door behind them, and there is no response.

All goes quiet. The most prominent speaker is the fountain in the garden, that well-kept patch of thriving things beyond the shelter of the roof. The trickling water fills the ear, hissing and lapping. Beneath the cover of its whisper, and as Nadir is observing the reflection shown to him in a dozen different facets by his ruined gift, Erik takes up Reza's figurine. There is an empty compartment in his cloak. He was reserving it for a cherry wood stem and poppy cake. The elephant and its rider have a cumbersome shape that pokes and prods at his person, but the fabric swallows them whole.

Nothing else to shield from view, Erik approaches the mirror while Nadir is still transfixed inside it. "How much did it cost?"

"I'm not sure." He holds his own stare, the green of his eyes divided and dispersed across several jagged shards. "You'll have to ask the person it came from."

"It was from the palace, wasn't it?"

"No, it was from a distant cousin. He wants a favor."

"My head, no doubt."

"After tonight, I may give it to him." The crease in Nadir's forehead reforms as he glances over. "How did you get in?"

"I thought I'd try the front door."

"You had no right, _no right_, to come here like this."

Erik thumbs the little wheel on the underside of his ring. He turns it slowly, without any true attempt at generating warmth. "You extended an invitation to me."

"Not an unconditional one! You can't barge in without anyone's knowledge, Erik. You can't be sneaking around while everyone is asleep."

"What would you have me do? Roam the grounds until your household sees fit to get out of bed? I refuse to accommodate laziness, and I do not allow others to determine how I occupy my time."

"Except the khanum, clearly." Nadir makes a fluctuating, exasperated sound. It is higher than his speaking voice, a caricature of his rumbling laugh. "Well, _I_ do not welcome guests that don't know how to respect the message of a locked door. Goodbye, Erik."

He goes inside and yanks the door.

As it swings on its hinges, it creates a gust of wind, a cold burst in the air. The chill slices through flesh to bone. It will be silent, exceedingly silent, when Erik is left alone. The rush of the fountain may be relentless, but all it carries is the threat of never inspiring good-natured laughter again. He catches the door before it closes completely, following him into the house.

"You know, Nadir, all these principles of yours accomplish is to make you insufferably stubborn! At least allow me to reimburse you. The asking price of one mirror is no hardship to me."

"I don't want any part of the fortune you've made in this country. Whatever you haven't stolen has come at the expense of countless lives." Nadir crosses the parlor and continues on into the kitchen, retracing the route Erik traveled with Reza at his side.

"And I suppose your comfortable lifestyle is wholly disconnected from the suffering of the alleged traitors stacked one on top of the other in your prisons? Many arrested without even the most preposterous scrap of evidence."

Nadir halts beside the cupboard, and his stillness is concession enough.

"My position asks more of me than murder. Music and magic rarely kill anyone, and I have fashioned them into lucrative presentations. Though, I admit, building sites can be hazardous."

Dawn is beginning to seep through the windows. The rooms are cast in blue, but it is a lighter hue, one that is farther reaching and less forgiving than the moon would dare initiate. Erik comes to stand by Nadir and, when there is no indication he is going to respond, tracks his line of sight to discover what has claimed his interest.

There, on the rug at their feet, thankfully unbroken, is the opium pipe. It is lying upside down and at an angle, careless as how it was dropped. The cupboard is gaping open. The shelves are untidy, obviously rummaged through. Tongs jut out sideways like an awaiting trap.

"So," Nadir says, "this is why you came. You broke into my home in the middle of the night to steal from me."

Erik crouches down to collect the pipe because the scenario it suggests is not accurate, not accurate in the least. "In order to steal something, you have to keep it, and I would have returned it all to you, replaced the opium before you knew to miss it." He goes to the cupboard, and his hands move across the shelves on a warpath of organization. "It is fortunate I was here. Reza would have woken alone, with no one about the house to assist him."

"He probably would've had a better chance of surviving the night without you! Do you even realize how easily he could have injured himself with that broken mirror? How dangerous that was for him?"

All the disheveled things are neat now, but Erik remains preoccupied, twisting a jar of ointment until the latch on the top is centered. "Oh, I know dangers in a mirror you could scarcely imagine."

Nadir takes a long, slow breath. "I want to believe you were helping him. I have watchedyou make him better in so many ways, but tonight was the worst I've seen him. If he never gets out of bed again, I will hold you responsible."

With that, he strides to the front door, secures the lock, and vanishes in the direction of his bedroom.

Erik goes out the back. He ventures into the garden to perch on the fountain's edge. The perturbed water does not create much of a likeness, but still he gazes down, down into the rippling silhouette of a monster spilled onto the surface. It seems he cannot escape his reflection. Wherever he turns, another avenue to his image presents itself. Endless mirrors… He cannot fathom anything more horrible, or a horror more deserved.

He is not the only one who deserves it.

The realization hits a firing mechanism, ignites a fuse leading to a dreamscape with boards nailed to the windows and a mandolin in the corner, gray with dust. The agony occurs to him. The screams climb, mingle, and cut off. He hears the taunts and jeers of the crowd, spat as they were between the bars of a gypsy cage. He sees Javert's rope hung upon his neck and remembers how numb panic made him twist and pull until it dug into his throat.

He removes the mask. He drowns in the backwards realm of the monster in the fountain, spurring his imagination to its most bottomless recesses, never coming up for air. It would be amusing, so very amusing, to show them all how terrorizing a reflection can be. That is the nightmare he will create for the khanum's executions—what he ought to have known from the start.

The worst sentence is, quite obviously, to inflict what he sees on everyone else. He leans in.


End file.
